Francisca spoke up then, demanding Brett's attention. ''Senor , " she said bluntly, "my son will be arriving some time within the next few weeks. He would have come with us, but"—and she shot an annoyed look at her niece—"Sabrina would not wait for him to return from Mexico City. I assume that you will have room for him here when he reaches the city."
Leisurely Brett lifted his crystal goblet and took a drink of wine. Setting the goblet down, he looked directly at Francisca and said deliberately, "No, I'm afraid that won't be possible. There are several inns and hotels nearby, and I am sure he will find comfortable quarters for his stay."
Francisca swelled up like a toad, venom in her black eyes, but prudence, for once, stilled her tongue. She had clashed with the hated gringo twice now, and each time she had come off the loser. But her anger was too great to be contained easily, and rising to her feet, she threw down her linen napkin and snapped, "If you will excuse me? I find your company less than congenial."
A tense silence suddenly filled the air, and Sabrina wished violently that her aunt had not deserted her so precipitously. But determined to show her mettle and to make it plain that she wasn't the least intimidated by him, she said forthrightly, "Surely your home is large enough to accommodate another guest. After all, he is her son and my cousin, not a stranger."
Gently Brett replied, "But you see, it is my home, and I don't wish to have him here."
Sabrina flushed at the deserved rebuke. It was his home, and she could understand his position. Curiosity, however, prompted her to ask, "Why don't you want him here?"
The jade-green eyes hooded, he suggested lightly, "Because I don't trust him?"
Sabrina frowned. "Why ever not? What has he done to you that makes you think he is untrustworthy?"
His long fingers toyed lazily with the crystal goblet, the dark face revealing little as he said unemotionally, "He told me lies—lies that were and are unforgivable."
Her frown increased, and unaware of how lovely she looked, the candlelight casting its golden glow across her creamy bosom and arms, the red-gold of the coronet braid on her head heightened by the flickering light, she persisted seriously, "What lies? Are you certain? As long as I have known him, he has never told me, or anyone I know, a lie. It would be dishonorable of him, and Carlos is basically an honorable man."
Sabrina might have been oblivious to her own charms, but in spite of his best intentions, Brett was not. Against his will, his eyes strayed over her, lingering with cynical appreciation on the slim shoulders and the smooth, tempting flesh that rose above the black silk gown. He remembered instantly the taste of her, the texture and scent of her skin, the feel of her soft mouth under his, and an intense, almost painful surge of desire hit him. Cursing himself for giving way to emotions he had thought long conquered, he stood up abruptly, furiously willing his body not to betray the state he was in. Walking swiftly across the room to the door, he said harshly, "I doubt that either one of you knows the meaning of the word honor, and in any case, I don't wish to discuss it now. If you will excuse me, I have business to attend to."
Startled at the lightning change in manner, she stared at him from across the room, her eyes puzzled and yet angry, too. "Wait!" she cried helplessly as he flung open the door and prepared to leave. Standing up, she hurried around the end of the table, crossing the room to where he stood.
She stopped inches from him, suddenly realizing that she didn't know what she wanted to say—she only knew she didn't want this unsatisfactory conversation to end this way. Attacked by an unexpected wave of shyness, she dropped her eyes from his hard face and muttered the first thing that came to her mind. "You can't have business this time of night . . . and besides, I wish to speak with you." She risked a glance at him, and not at all reassured by the unyielding features, she stammered, "A ... a ... a .. .about th . . . th . . . the guardianship."
Brett stiffened. Flatly he said, "There is nothing to discuss—I am your guardian, and you are my ward; those are the terms of your father's will, and I intend to abide by them."
Angrily Sabrina retorted, "Don't be ridiculous! You can't possibly want me for your ward."
Insolently the jade-green eyes wandered over her, and Sabrina felt as if she had just been stripped naked. A curious note in his voice, he drawled, "If I find the duties of guardianship wearing, I'm certain I shall find some other benefit from the arrangement. ..."
Her face pale, she demanded jerkily, "What do you mean?"
He smiled cynically. "Oh, come now, my dear, you can't be that unsophisticated!"
Without conscious thought, she slapped him, hard, the sound of her palm striking his cheek ringing out like a pistol shot in the room. A deathly silence fell, and for a second they stared at each other, the astonishment reflected in both faces making it clear that neither had quite expected such a violent reaction to his provoking words.
Brett recovered himself first, and with something between a snarl and a curse, he slammed the door furiously behind him. His broad shoulders resting against the panel behind him, blocking any escape, he regarded her with narrowed eyes. "I do believe," he began silkily, "that I once warned you not to be so quick with your hands."
Very aware that she had crossed over into dangerous territory, Sabrina bravely tried to hold her ground. Chin lifted belligerently, she said warily, "I don't know what you're talking about!"
He smiled, a smile that didn't reach those cold green eyes, and replied almost gently, "Then I'll just have to show you, won't I?"
His statement both thrilled and terrified her, and with one part of her mind, she miserably acknowledged that she had known exactly what would happen the instant she slapped him. It also, belatedly, occurred to her that Brett, too, had known precisely what reaction his insulting words would draw from her and that he had deliberately created their situation. She didn't have time to explore that fascinating avenue of thought, because in that moment, his hands closed painfully around her shoulders and she was jerked unceremoniously up against his hard form.
A shiver of something akin to ecstasy rippled uncontrollably through her at the touch of that well-remembered muscled body against hers, and when his mouth descended as she know it would, her lips were upraised, strangely eager and yet equally unwilling for his kiss. His mouth took hers with a savage intensity, almost as if he wanted to hurt her, his arms tightening powerfully around her, pulling her closer to him, allowing no room for resistance or escape.
But Sabrina was without fight. It didn't matter just then that he was kissing her for all the wrong reasons; it didn't even matter that it was almost a brutal kiss, a punishing kiss, his lips moving with a cruel urgency against her. All that mattered was that she was in his strong arms again. With a soft moan of part denial, part pleasure, her arms crept around his neck, her swelling breasts crushed between their locked bodies, her legs straining against his.
Brett kissed her like a man with a fierce, insatiable hunger to appease. His lips were everywhere—her brows, her cheeks, her earlobes—but compulsively he found her mouth again and again, his tongue plunging deeply, insistently, between her lips, driving every thought but one from his mind. It was as if the six years between them had never been, as if they had parted just yesterday, and only the memory of pain and the savage hunger that ate at him were reminders that so much time had passed since he had last held her in his arms. So much wasted time, he thought bitterly, the arms that pressed her close constricting possessively around her.
Sabrina gave a breathless murmur of surprise at the power of his embrace, desire like sun-warmed honey flowing in her veins, making her oblivious to everything but the man kissing her. Even when his hold on her slackened and she felt a questing, impatient hand at her breast, she couldn't bring herself to utter a protest, couldn't make a move to break the chains of passion that bound her to him. She could feel him forcing her gown lower, feel the warm fingers caressing and pulling at the nipples he had freed, and she trembled with a force of emotions those knowing f
ingers created. And when his head bent, his tongue curling around those stiffened coral nipples, his hot mouth hungrily suckling at her breast, Sabrina knew that she could deny him nothing. Nothing. She knew then that the dark fascination she had always feared still possessed her, knew that in spite of everything, she still wanted him. Wanted whatever he was willing to give her —and if it was only his body for now, at this moment, she would be willing to settle for just that.
Six long years she had denied wanting or needing him, but it took only a moment in his arms to know that she had lied to herself. Her body was aflame with desire; she ached to be naked against him, to have him possess her as he had on that warm, moonlit summer night, and feverishly she arched up against him, her hips moving in a motion as old as the universe. Exultantly she heard his muffled groan at her breast, and she was made unbearably conscious of the rigid staff of his manhood standing up between them as his hands captured her hips and guided her closer against him.
Blindly his mouth sought hers, his hands staying on her hips, controlling her movements, keeping her pressed tightly to him. Sensually he moved against her, sending little shocks of pleasure exploding along her body every time the swollen length of him brushed erotically across her stomach and upper thighs.
A sudden knock on the door broke them apart, and his eyes fever-bright, his voice thick, Brett snapped, "Yes, what is it?"
Andrew's apologetic words came muffled through the door. "Oh, excuse me, sir, I didn't realize that you were still in the dining room. I'll come back later to clear the table."
Straightening his cravat, instantly in icy control of himself, Brett said crisply, "Come back in five minutes and the room will by yours."
There was a polite reply from Andrew and then silence. Cynically Brett stared at Sabrina's flushed features and murmured, "I trust you know now what I mean. And sweetheart, any time you want to slap me—go ahead. I have my own far more pleasurable form of retaliation."
He watched with interest as her fist clenched, and then, after bowing mockingly, he strode arrogantly from the room.
Tears of pain and rage pricking behind her lids, like a wounded animal, Sabrina sought refuge. There was no gazebo by the lake here to offer her sanctuary, but the small balcony of her room gave her the impression of protected isolation, and with relief she made her way there, thankful that she met no one as she did so.
It seemed she'd had good reason to fear the fascination Brett held for her, and woefully she stared down at the dark courtyard, wondering wretchedly how she was going to make it through the next few days.
It was useless to pretend that she felt nothing for him, that she could deal with him unemotionally. Useless to tell herself that what had happened tonight would never happen again—he had only to touch her and she was clay in his hands, willing, no eager, to be molded in whatever fashion pleased him. Angry and ashamed at how easily she had responded to him, Sabrina bitterly faced the fact that in spite of all her denials, she did still feel something for him. Not love, she told herself fiercely, but the memory of love. The memory of what she had felt for him before that horrible conversation with Constanza. The memory of what it had felt like to be in his arms, to feel that for the moment he was hers and hers alone.
Somewhere behind all the arguments she presented to explain her motives, Sabrina knew that she was deluding herself. That behind the anger, behind the hurt, behind even the passion, perhaps even the reason for the passion, was love. But for tonight she convinced herself that love had nothing to do with the situation between her and Brett Dangermond, that it was only desire that had prompted his actions and that it was only her own foolish clinging to what had once been that had allowed her to act as she had.
Ironically, Brett used the same arguments on himself, arriving at much the same conclusion. Only in his case there was never any question of love being involved. He did not love her! he vowed furiously to himself once he had reached the privacy of the library and poured himself another snifter of brandy. He hadn't admitted to loving her six years ago when he had offered to marry her, and he sure as hell wasn't going to admit it now! It would be the height of insanity to love a woman who had made it so painfully clear that her only interest in him was the size of his fortune.
Even now, with the distance of nearly six years between the events, he could remember vividly the pain and bewilderment that had eaten at him, the black rage that had consumed him, as he had waited those nerve-racking weeks in Natchitoches, one part of him longing unbearably for her to indeed be pregnant, another part of him ready to saddle his horse and leave the greedy little jade to her fate. And not even to himself would he admit the crushing disappointment that had knifed through him when Ollie had returned with her answer. Secretly he had hoped that some miracle had taken place since he rode away, that she had discovered, child or not, that she had been too hasty in rejecting him, that there had been another emotion besides greed that had prompted her to surrender to him, that the same unacknowledged yearnings that had possessed him had urged her to accept his proposal of marriage in the first place. Obviously such had not been the case, he thought dryly, as he took another sip of his brandy. Not once in the ensuing years had there been any hint that she had changed her mind—Alejandro's few letters to him had been carefully empty of any but the most mundane references to his daughter. They also, Brett reminded himself ruefully, had not contained one hint of what Alejandro had added to his will.
God! but he had been furious when he learned of the trick Alejandro had played upon him, and his fury had initially deadened his pain at the news of Alejandro's death. His first impulse had been to reject the guardianship out of hand, to refuse to accept it or anything to do with Sabrina del Torres.
When he had ridden away from Natchitoches that September of 1800, he had taken a bitter contempt and cold fury for Sabrina with him. And after the pain had lessened, after months had passed and he could look back on the situation without an aching wrench in his gut, the unfortunate need to seek revenge had gradually taken hold in his mind. He wanted with a ruthless intensity to teach her a lesson that she would never forget, teach her brutally that men were not playthings to be toyed with and then carelessly tossed aside when it suited her. Night after night he had dreamed of ways of wreaking vengeance upon her, of having her completely in his control, forcing her to answer to his every whim. That his vengeance usually entailed her being bound to him for life and that much of his punishment involved having her in his arms and making violent love to her never quite occurred to him. But the fact that Alejandro's will made her almost his virtual prisoner for life dawned on him within hours of hearing the news.
His fury against Alejandro had vanished in an instant, and even suspecting that Alejandro had probably had far different objectives in view when he had added that codicil to his will, Brett had been exultant that at last his moment for revenge had come. And at present he was oddly content just to know that she was in his power . . . that he could do with her what he wanted and that there was no one to gainsay him.
For months now he had savored the thought of this meeting, dreamed of it, planned it, and he was vaguely uneasy that it wasn't going exactly as he had envisioned. He hadn't expected to feel a stirring of those disturbing emotions he had thought dead and forgotten—seeing her standing there travel-stained and faintly defiant this afternoon in the courtyard, he had been assailed by a fierce need to sweep her into his arms, to kiss those dream-fashioned features and hold her. He had also been appalled and shaken by the wave of joy that had swept through him at seeing her again; appalled and shaken by the knowledge that there was no thought of revenge in his mind, only delight at the changes in her, pleasure that she was here in his home at last. He had damned Francisca's unwanted presence in those first bittersweet seconds, but later he had been bleakly thankful that she had been there—at least he hadn't betrayed himself, revealed that he was still vulnerable. . . .
Infuriated that he would even consider such a ridiculous notio
n, he swallowed the remainder of his brandy and with a jerky movement, slammed the empty snifter down on the desk. He was not vulnerable! he snarled grimly to himself. And certainly not vulnerable to a woman's wiles. Especially not Sabrina's! She was just a greedy little jade who had gotten under his skin once, but she wasn't going to get the chance to do so again. No. This time the cards were all in his hands, and he intended to take full advantage of the situation. She would suffer this time. Not him! And a slightly cruel smile curved his chiseled mouth as he recalled this evening's scene after dinner.
He hadn't planned it, but from the moment Francisca had left the dining room, he had become intolerably aware of the intimacy of the situation, the opportunity of the situation. Sabrina had always been overpoweringly attractive to him, but tonight she had looked particularly fetching, the barbaric necklace of gold and black onyx gleaming against her warm creamy skin, and he had wondered idly how she would look with that glorious fire--red hair tumbling wildly about her shoulders, wearing nothing except that necklace. . . .
The Tiger Lily Page 35
